STAR WARS: KOTOR III: CRUCIBLE
by Vyrazhi
Summary: Yes, Revan's in it. Yes, the Exile's in it. Yes, the main character is a degenerate gambler who finds herself on the run from the Exchange, local law enforcement, and...the Sith? Rated K plus.
1. WIN OR DIE

_**STAR WARS:**_ _**KNIGHTS OF THE OLD REPUBLIC III: CRUCIBLE**_

 _A Gambler's Tale by MsFicwriter, ©2015_

 _CHAPTER ONE: WIN OR DIE_

"Are you going to sit there all night, human? The rest of us have credits to win."

"Not my credits, you won't. As for sitting here? I'll have to go to the refreshers eventually."

It's amazing how fast one's fortunes can change, even on such a barren waste of a planet as Telos.

I flash a smile at Cratt, the Rodian sitting next to me, but he doesn't respond. He's dressed in an orange and black security uniform issued by Czerka Corporation. Thugs – I mean guards – like him have been all over the place since that conglomerate took over Telos' planet restoration contracts from the Republic. Everyone on Citadel Station walks a thin line, from the humble cleaning crew to degenerate gamblers like myself. Of course, my tightrope is much thinner than most. If I'm not careful, I'll fall off and end up dead.

We all will, unless those good hands keep coming on the pazaak table. Speaking of which:

"Two tens. You can't get any better than that." I smirk and rake in credit chips from the three other players.

Cratt scoffs through his thin, scaly snout. "You may be on top now, you little _schutta,_ but not later."

"You're right. Later I'll quit and take all of your hard-earned money with me, maybe even buy a starship."

"Fat chance," says the Gamorrean on the opposite side of the hexagonal table. "Gruuntzi not believe you."

"You lunk. You don't believe anything, except that you can drink fifty straight shots of juma juice," says Cratt.

Gruuntzi pounds on the table. "I can!" He throws his hand up in the air and gestures for a server.

"Excuse me," says Nat'ala, the only other woman besides me in our group, although she's a Twi'lek. "Are we going to play cards or watch this idiot drink until he vomits all over the place?" Her bright green _lekku,_ or head-tails, twitch impatiently. Unfortunately for her, that's also her 'tell', and one she often uses.

"Hey, you. Who idiot?" asks Gruuntzi, clenching his meaty palms into fists.

"The next person who doesn't start dealing," I blurt out. Confrontations with Gamorreans can get ugly fast.

"Your turn, Vyshe." Nat'ala raises an eyebrow. My name's pronounced _VEE-shay,_ meaning "higher."

I cringe. How could I have forgotten? Before I can deal the cards, however, a waitress arrives at our table.

"What can I get for you?"

Gruuntzi starts grunting in his native language. The only word that I can understand is"NOW."

"Pardon me?"

"Please excuse the Gamorrean," says Nat'ala. "He wants fifty shots of juma, but that would be unwise."

"Shh!" Cratt puts a bony finger to his lips. I agree with him. If Gruuntzi's drunk, then he can't play very well.

"Are you sure?" asks the waitress, and Gruuntzi nods. "Nat'ala, you have ten minutes left on your break."

"That's more than enough time to clean these amateurs out before I get back on stage again."

 _That's also more than enough time to lose everything you've earned tonight._ She's lucky, in a way. Most cantinas these days prefer to broadcast holograms of dancers so they won't have to pay any. That means Nat'ala has a steady job, but a steady gambling problem too. With that said, she's better off than I am.

If I don't win at the card tables or on the hyper-reel machines, I'm lost. Everybody knows me here, but no one trusts me – least of all Czerka Corp. _Oh, kriff!_ _Of all the rotten luck, here comes my ex-supervisor…_

"Cratt, you deal," I tell the Rodian, practically thrusting the cards into his hands. "I have to use the facilities." Winding my way among as many people as possible, I duck into the ladies' refresher and hide in a stall.

 _It's cramped in here, but not as much as my cubicle was. It took me a while before I discovered I was much better at counting cards than coding. All it took was one night at pazaak, and I earned more than I made in a month. At first I had my "side job" under control. I kept a low profile, winning big but spending frugally._

More women enter nearby enclosures. I hear natural but unpleasant sounds, and add my own to them.

 _Then my boss found out. I wasn't addicted to "gaming" back then, but I was fired. It just goes to show -_

 _What? That people assume too much, and too often? That no one will give you a second chance if your reputation precedes you? That there are surveillance cameras everywhere on Citadel Station, and they're not only for our protection? That even your spare time is not your own? I guess the most important thing is that there are too many applicants in this place and not enough jobs. Only the strong survive. That means having no vices. I tried, but I'm certainly not a droid. The thing is, when the chips are rolling in, life's great._

 _Never mind the stench. I'm going to stay here for the rest of the night, if the coast isn't clear by then._

Three sharp knocks on the stall door interrupt my thoughts. "Is anybody in there? It's an emergency."

 _So much for that._ I pull up my pants, wait for the steel sani-bowl to flush, and dart out with an apologetic smile. I'm not ready to go back into the cantina just yet, so I take an extra-long time washing my hands and reapplying makeup. Local fashionistas say that purple eyeshadow and magenta lipstick don't go with red hair. What do they know? Mine isn't sunset orange, but rather a dark copper color, cut very short.

When I return to our corner nook, two other gamblers have joined us. One's parked in my seat: a Trandoshan in a brown uniform. He looks like a janitor, but when do they play for such high stakes as Cratt and I do? Never, in my book. That means he's new, and if so, that means the two of us are going to fleece him- mostly me. The second newcomer is armored, and, I suspect, heavily-armed even though weapons are officially banned in here. He's not wearing a Telosian Security Force uniform, either. My stomach sinks.

 _I ran and hid from an angry mynock, only to be confronted by a krayt dragon! What in the galaxy is his name again? Rader? Rudek? Whatever it is, my name will be "corpse" if I don't keep getting twenties._

"Who da new guys?" snorts Gruuntzi, busy gulping down juma shots as fast as the waitress can bring them.

"I am Savessk," the Trandoshan says. He holds out a clawed reptilian hand that no one shakes.

Nat'ala stands up. "Time to get back to work, but your ilk aren't welcome at our table." At first I think she's talking about Savessk. Ticked-off Trandoshans are as much trouble as Gamorreans, but her gaze is fixed upon the human thug. I recognize the tattoo on his cheek: a credit sign, meaning he's from the Exchange.

"Oh?" he says. "I'm welcome at any table I want. As for you, Twi'lek? Shut up and dance."

She storms off in a huff, and I take her chair instead of my own. I also take a deep breath to calm my nerves.

"It's my turn to deal," says the enforcer. Cratt gives him the pazaak deck with trembling hands. "Wagers?"

No one wants to give theirs first, but the Rodian finally pipes up: "Three thousand credits, Ribok, sir."

"Someone who knows his place. I like that. What about you, Gamorrean?" He frowns at Gruuntzi.

"Phfft." Gruuntzi swipes his hand over the table in a dismissive gesture and then swallows another shot.

"He's going for the 'fifty'," says Cratt. "That's good for us. When he gets back in the game, then he'll –"

"Soil himself." We flash tight rictus grins. Ordinarily, an Exchange enforcer like Ribok would tell him, "If you don't pay, you don't play," but Gruuntzi is four times his size. It's best to let drinking behemoths drink.

"I bet three thousand," says Savessk, and Ribok deals him a hand. When the thug spots me, he winks.

"Vyshe Tanaria. Aren't you going to say hello?"

"Not if it's my last word."

Cratt titters in the chirping, insectoid laugh of his species. Savessk remains silent. Gruuntzi, ever eager to prove himself, is up to thirty or thirty-five servings of liquor now. I'm sweating and regretting that I didn't put enough antiperspirant on before I came here tonight.

"What's your wager?"

"None. I'm calling it a night – " I feel the biting touch of metal against my thigh. Ribok is sitting right next to me, and he's got a blaster. "Um, on second thought, I'd like to wager two thousand credits." He raises it. "Five thousand." He reaches out, yanks me closer, and leans the barrel of his pistol against my right temple.

 _Scream! No, don't do that. You'll get shot. Signal for our waitress! No, don't do that. You'll get shot._

"Tw-twenty thousand. That's all I have."

"You owe a hundred thousand," Ribok hisses in my ear, "and your time is up. It's either win or die. Play."

The thug finishes dealing and lights up a cigar full of contraband spice, not legal vapor. Oddly enough, I see several off-duty TSF personnel in here, but they won't help me. Why not, if they're so committed to keeping everyone safe and upholding the law? Simple, right? No. The Telosian Security Force is deadlocked in an unstable triad of power with the Exchange and Czerka Corporation on Citadel Station.

From what I understand via firsthand and secondhand rumors, it works like this: The Republic gives funds to Czerka to carry out the planet's restoration, and to the TSF in order to provide a police force. Czerka provides ordinary station-dwellers like me with jobs, if we can get them, and extraordinary people with black market weapons. Czerka might as well be pronounced "sha-dy" instead of "zer-ka," so there you have it.

The Exchange makes Czerka tons of money, and vice-versa, while the TSF are caught in the middle. No one can tell the honest officers from the crooked ones just by looking, except that the latter are more likely to hang out in this cantina. The good ones go home to their families or the holo-cinema if they're looking for a movie. As for the people they protect, they'll rescue even the lowest-paid dishwashers, but me?

I'm the scum of the galaxy. If I'm found out, I'll be arrested and locked up for at least ten years. Not for gambling, which is legal but frowned upon, but for "possession of ties to a galactic criminal syndicate." It doesn't matter that my only tie to the Exchange is a hundred-thousand-credit loan that I have trouble paying. The law is the law. Even if I rat on Ribok, that's like having the TSF catch a barracuda while the sharks go free. The one they really need to nab is Egno, the Exchange's enigmatic head. There's no chance of that.

There's also no chance of me surviving the night. Who gets five perfect pazaak hands – unless they cheat?

"Don't think about playing a fast one. You're dead meat to me, Vyshe, unless you cough up those creds."

I swallow hard. "Right."

My first card is a deuce, which is what went down the sani-bowl in my refresher stall. Not a good sign.

"Hit me." I get a five. My spirits lift, only to sink again when my third card turns out to be a ten. _Seventeen._

 _Please, please let me win this one. Let me live just a few more minutes. I'll do anything. Please._

When it's my turn again, I take my last card. Ribok grabs my wrist and wrenches my palm up to face him.

"Twenty-seven. Your hand is over, and so are you." Again, he jerks me close and jabs me with the pistol.

I black out.


	2. THE MOUSE THAT ROARED

_CHAPTER TWO: THE MOUSE THAT ROARED_

" _Did you hear about Louie Miller? He disappeared, babe, after drawing out all his hard-earned cash._

 _And now MacHeath spends just like a sailor. Could it be our boy's done something rash?"_

"Mack the Knife," as popularized by Bobby Darin

 _Darkness. Silence. It's blazing hot, like the twin suns of Tatooine. Am I in…?_

"Good, you're conscious. I was afraid that Ribok's illegally-modified blaster wasn't set to 'stun' after all."

I open my eyes, which are almost gummed shut, and see a blurred face through a watery haze of tears.

"Who are you?" Due to my numb throat and thick tongue, this comes out as a watery gurgle: _Huu-yuggh?_

"I'm Stimous Lanz, but my friends call me Mouse. You seem to be my newest one – friend, I mean. Both of us are locked, along with three other unfortunates, in the hold of a cargo vessel for Czerka Corporation."

 _Cargo vessel? Czerka Corporation? Locked? Mouse?_ I sit up, my whole body stiff. "Tell me more." These words fall from my mouth like viscous fluid, and sound like a holonews report played at one-quarter speed.

"Hey, baldie," says a younger man. "Before you start yakking, remember the security cameras in here."

"I'll keep it short, then. We've been captured by two members of the Exchange, a Trandoshan by the name of Savessk and his superior, a well-armed human thug called Ribok. I assume you've met before." I nod. "This is what they call a 'collection run', meaning that time has run out on our debts. Only two things happen in this case: debtors are killed or sold into slavery. If they wanted to do the former, they would have already."

"So, we're…?" I'm beginning to see the picture. "Do you know where they're taking us?"

"Probably Nar Shaddaa. No one asks too many questions about influxes of 'new employees' out there."

"Is there any hope of – ?"

"Not unless you've got a blaster." Mouse chuckles while I check my pockets to no avail. "I certainly don't."

"None of us does," says a haggard-looking woman, "so let me sleep." She curls up in a corner of the hold.

"If I had to guess," interjects a gorgeous orange Twi'lek that would put Nat'ala to shame, "I'm destined for the richer part of the Red Sector. So are you," she continues, looking at me and lowering her voice to a whisper, "unless you start winning again." I blink in surprise. "I've often seen you at the pazaak tables."

The sedative, or whatever was in Ribok's stun gun, is beginning to wear off. "My luck's run out at last."

"So has mine, although in a different way."

"Are you a professional gambler like me, or did you dance in the cantina?"

"Neither. On Citadel Station, I was the mistress of its top Exchange boss. He grew tired of my company."

I blink twice. "That's a heck of a way to dump someone."

"Not only that, but he charged me for all the 'gifts' he so lavishly bestowed. I couldn't pay, so here I am."

"What about the rest of you?" I glance uneasily at Mouse, the other guy, and the snoring harridan.

"None of your business," says the muscular youngster in a dirty shirt. He turns his back to me and falls silent. From the gang tattoos rippling up and down his arms, I gather he's a more "hands-on" type of enforcer than Ribok. What could have made him fall from grace? Maybe he didn't want to rough up a family member or a lover who had fallen behind on loan payments. Now he'll make an excellent freight-hauling slave.

"Maurtha over there cleaned refreshers throughout the Station," says Mouse, "but to take the edge off the work, she did spice. Harder drugs, too. She says she has no sense of smell anymore, which is good."

 _Good?_ "I guess everything is relative. If you're willing to tell me, what's your tale of woe?"

"You sure you want to hear it?"

I take a deep breath, inhaling the pervasive aroma of armpit sweat, hair oil, spice, smoke from vapor cigars, and – urine? _Poor old man. If Ribok stunned him the same as he did to me, then Mouse couldn't help it._

"I haven't got anything better to do than smell everyone's feet," I quip. "Including my own."

Mouse grins, revealing the loss of a few back teeth on top. "You wouldn't know it by looking at me now, but I was once the number-one bookie on Citadel Station. I was here long before Czerka came, before the Ithorians tried to put their environmental plans into place, before that _schutta_ Sarai Vesod ever arrived."

"Who?"

"Sarai Vesod. Some exiled Jedi who served with Darth Revan in the Mandalorian Wars."

I nod and pretend to look savvy, but I'm bluffing. I've heard rumors here and there about this woman. From the bits and pieces I've cobbled together, she had two choices: side with a group of pacifist aliens called the Ithorians, who wanted to "restore Telos" – whatever that means – or side with Czerka. She chose the Corporation, and I'm not surprised. If you're venturing on a long starship journey, go where the money is. Another tale I've been told is that Vesod did just that, eventually defeating not one but three Sith Lords.

Even if it's true, that has nothing to do with us directly. At the same time, it's dictated almost everything.

"So you were on Citadel Station taking bets for ages before she showed up. Life was good then, right?"

"Fantastic. The Exchange didn't even have half of the foothold they do right now, but what they did have was a steady supply of gamblers and cantina clientele. Humans and aliens alike wagered on pazaak, hyper-reels, swoop races, stun-pistol duels – even how many drinks their fellows could consume at once."

I smile. "Sounds familiar."

"Sure, but there was one more crucial factor to consider: At first the Republic didn't really believe that the Telos restoration would work. Thus, they didn't send their best men out to guard and police a dead planet."

"That means most of the law enforcement on-station had to have been provided by another organization."

"You've earned yourself a fifteen in the cards so far. Now earn eighteen. Who came through on security?"

"Those who'd only be in the business for the money, never mind 'to protect and serve'."

"Excellent. Now, think of all the TSF cops you've seen on Citadel for as long as you've been there. Once the Republic's higher officers and military personnel realized what was going on, what do you think it did?"

"Let me guess: No crackdowns? No sordid exposés on the Station holonews? No raids on Exchange HQ?"

"Not a one. However, what does the Exchange do when someone won't pay up, someone with a secret?"

"Extortion."

"The Republic did the exact same thing. 'Trade one uniform for another,' they told the 'security,' or…"

"What? They wouldn't dare. They're the good guys."

"Why wouldn't they? With all due respect, for a professional gambler, you're naïve. Remember: Criminals such as you and I have no leg to stand on when our number's up. We have to fight, go on the run, or serve prison time. There were, of course, squealers and stoolies who helped to clean up the force quite a bit. That's what the Republic would have you believe. However, I knew differently and survived the transition."

"How? You don't look like the Telosian Security Force type – you know, tons of brawn and little brain."

"Once a bookie, always a bookie, even when you're wearing a cantina bartender's drink-stained clothes."

"So you repented and converted, if only in your day job. In the meantime, you still worked for the Exchange."

"I _owned_ the Exchange, girlie. This Mouse didn't squeak like the other 'reformed' TSF rats. This one roared. Organizations such as ours survive on the four G's: gambling, girls, gigolos, and goods such as spice and tripper-vapor. I handled the first and the last, not being skilled in the flesh trade. I felt squeamish about it."

"Like most people feel squeamish about mice." Silence. "So when did the Czerka Corporation come in?"

"About the same time as the Ithorians did. They claimed, like so many other false messiahs, that they could bring a Sith-ravaged planet back to life. Czerka said they'd do the same, albeit through vast terraforming instead of importing natural specimens from Dxun and Onderon. Before that, however, no one else was very interested in Telos' fate. Only when the Republic realized how many credits it was wasting trying to provide law and order, and "extra-planetary" experience for job applicants, did it realize it needed outside help. Enter the aliens who talk in bass tones so low that they hurt my ears, and the bloodsucking parasites."

"While you served them as a barman, taking numerous bets and doling out 'recreational fauna' on the side."

"That's when the tide started to turn against me. The Exchange boss at this point was a Quarren named Loppak Slusk. He had a sultry second named Luxa, whom I attempted to entice, but she turned me down."

"Gee, I can't imagine why."

Mouse lets out a loud, barking laugh that wakes Maurtha up. "I had all my teeth then, but not for long."

"Luxa told Slusk about how you tried to hit on her?"

"That was the beginning of the end. Obviously, he wasn't happy about that, but did he have to go and replace me with a _kriffing_ droid? I'm a thousand times better at mixing drinks than IT is. What was worse was that there weren't many job openings for a geezer like me, except on the cleaning staff with Maurtha."

"So what did you do?"

"What you ought to, the both of you, is shut up." Maurtha cradles her head in her gnarled hands.

"I'm almost done. What I was supposed to do, according to the laws of decency, was swallow my pride and go scrub sani-bowls. However, why do that when you can make far more credits getting revenge? I still had my secondary occupation, and started skimming money off of the proceeds that were meant for Slusk and Luxa. I got away with it for a bit, but it was the other prong of my two-fold vengeance that got me here."

"Which was?"

The orange Twi'lek goddess winks. "Yeru Q'leth, at your service."

 _I can't believe it._ "You and that slimy, face-tentacled Quarren…?"

"Were partners a short while ago."

 _I still can't believe it._ "You and Mouse…?"

"Were partners an even shorter while ago."

My head's reeling again, and not just from the aftereffects of the stun drugs. "Why?"

"Every girl needs a spice daddy," Yeru shrugs, "but Mouse cares about more than my looks and his wallet."

"So now you're being shipped to Nar Shaddaa as slaves. How romantic. Why didn't Loppak Slusk kill you?"

"That exiled Jedi killed him and Luxa first. It wasn't long before the Exchange sent Ribok and Savessk."

"Thus, here we are." I sigh. "Here we all are, unless a good technician can – wait." I stand up with a start.

"What are you doing?"

"All I have to do is get over to the security camera and disable it."

"Don't be rash!"

 _Too late._ I begin to counterbalance the codes for the surveillance feed with frantic glee, delighted that my coding skills have come in handy for something other than Czerka's profits. All of a sudden, the door opens.

"Freeze," says an all-too-familiar enforcer's voice.

I throw my hands up in surrender and hear the sharp report of a blaster shot. _This time I'm dead for real._

When my ears stop ringing, and Maurtha stops screaming, it's Ribok's body I find on the floor of the hold.

Savessk towers over it. "You should have listened to your friend," he hisses, "but the tables have turned."


	3. ROGUE OR REDEEMER?

_CHAPTER THREE: ROGUE OR REDEEMER?_

" _Pentiti; cangia vita, è l'ultimo momento!"_

" _Repent; change your ways; for this is your last chance!"_

–Il Commendatore, from Mozart's opera _Don Giovanni_

"What do you mean?" I ask Savessk in a voice that's even raspier than his. "How have the tables turned?"

"With every roll of the dice and every flip of the cards, there comes another chance. I've just given you one."

"You're freeing us?" The tall Exchange goon, now a piece of human merchandise, scoffs. "Bantha dung."

"Do you really think that I'll allow you to return to Citadel Station, and your criminal lives?" He fixes the five of us in turn with a pointed stare. "To your profit-skimming, bet-taking and mistress-stealing, Mouse? To your drugs, Maurtha? To your 'reminders for loan payments,' Orith? To your dalliances and schemes, Yeru? To your compulsive gambling, Vyshe? No. You are still slaves, and I am still your owner. I'm taking you to a place where you'll be safe, and where the Exchange won't nab you without a fight they'll most likely lose."

Orith calls Savessk a few choice words and then, "You scoundrel. You're from the Exchange, too, and you just want the profits from our sale for yourself." He stands up. "Come to think of it…" He charges the Trandoshan, who hurls him back with astonishing strength. Orith falls on all fours, drawing ragged breaths.

"D-did you even touch me?" he manages to stammer.

Savessk glares down at him.

"Unless I'm high right now," says Maurtha, "that lizard man didn't lay a finger on your big, stupid head."

"A claw," corrects Savessk. "I'd appreciate it if you would address my species by its proper name."

 _Something's very wrong here._ "If you didn't manhandle Orith, how did you propel him straight backward?"

"There is another force, besides the brute kind, which I utilize. I am a Guardian Knight of the Jedi Order."

We regard each other with wide, terrified eyes. None of us can believe what's happening. First we were abducted and hauled into this tightly-cramped ship's hold. Then we were drugged (or did that happen beforehand?). Regardless, when we woke up, Ribok got shot while trying to shoot me for disabling the security camera. Then Orith tried to attack Savessk, Ribok's killer, and – It's more than too much. It's insane.

The only thing that can snap us out of our incredulous stupor is a sharp command from Savessk: "Come!" He enters the code for the hold door on a numerical keypad, the tips of his talons clicking efficiently. I'm surprised at how well he can do this, but I'm even more surprised when I see how big the ship really is.

"This is just a freight vessel for Czerka? Why is it so spacious?" asks Yeru Q'leth, echoing my thoughts.

The Trandoshan bares his teeth in what passes for a grin. "As you've seen, they haul more than inert cargo."

Orith raises his eyebrows. "So, they pack more slaves in here when they need to. Why bother with us?"

"If you mean the Exchange, you already know that answer. If you mean me, I'm in the redemption business."

"Count me out." He inches closer to him, although with much warier steps. "I'm not a saint, Trandoshan."

"Neither am I. Would you prefer to be sold on Nar Shaddaa, as a heavy-machinery hauler for the Hutts?"

"What if I would?"

"You'll be dead in three months. Four at the most, although I doubt you would last that long."

"At least I'll have a better chance of killing and escaping from my masters."

"Do pride and ingratitude run that deeply within you? If I take you back to Citadel, the TSF will arrest you."

"Let them. I didn't get to be an enforcer for the Exchange without a hit or two on my hands. Next excuse."

"Come off it," says Maurtha. "Even Vyshe over here has enough sense to admit when she has lost."

"Hey, cleaning lady! How did you know that?" I'm too proud to add, "Although it's true."

Maurtha smirks, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "I've heard your defeated sighs in the refreshers, dear."

"As well as my defeated weeping?" She nods, and Orith guffaws. Mouse and Savessk say nothing at all.

"What I'd like to know," squeaks Mouse after a moment, "is where we're headed, Master Jedi."

"Thank you for the homage, although I haven't reached that rank. We're on course for the polar region of Telos, which is one of the few areas that hasn't had to be terraformed by Czerka. A veteran Master named Atris is the head of a Jedi academy there, well-concealed from the rest of the galaxy. I am her apprentice."

I hold up a hand to stop him. "Wait – you're going to have her teach us how to be Jedi?"

Savessk half-turns toward me. "Patience is not one of your virtues, I see, but hear me out. You are all too old to be considered for such training. Jedi traditionally begin their studies as children, even infants. The only reasons I'm an exception are because Master Atris was in dire need of students, and she required a goodwill ambassador as well. My kind are assassins, bounty hunters, enforcers, mercenaries, and the like. A Force-sensitive Trandoshan is as rare as getting five twenties in a row in pazaak without cheating."

"So, if we're not going to become silly do-gooders like you," says Orith,"then what's the use of taking us to this place?"

"It is a sanctuary, a safe haven for those who need it. Namely, the five of you. I was on an undercover mission to infiltrate the Exchange network on Citadel Station. Now that I've succeeded, it's time for me to find out if there are new paths for its victims. Yes, even you are a victim, despite your bravado. Czerka and the TSF wouldn't hire you because of your criminal record, but this academy needs several skilled guards."

"Whatever. Whether I'm a slave on Nar Shaddaa or here on this blasted planet, I'm still going to be a slave. Haven't you ever heard of free will, or offering people a choice? Why don't you leave me alone, lizard?"

Savessk's nostrils flare, but he quickly gains control of his temper. "What have your choices earned you?"

"Tons of credits for one thing, and respect for another."

"Fear is not the same thing as respect, Orith Vex. If you serve our Order, you'll quickly learn this lesson."

"What is this? School? No one has the right to teach me anything anymore, because I'm my own master."

"I have an idea," Yeru Q'leth says through clenched teeth. "Why don't you return to bed in the cargo hold?"

Orith leers at her. "Only if you'll come with me."

"What about us?" asks Mouse in order to shut him up. "Will Maurtha and I have to clean refreshers?"

"No. I've found that the best instructors for our youngest pupils are often the eldest. Do you like children?"

"I've always wanted some," Maurtha says, "but I never got the chance. Infertility problems, you see."

"You wouldn't be able to teach them the ways of the Force," says Savessk, "but you would know a lot about galactic history and current events. You and Mouse could even take care of babies in the nursery annex."

"That wouldn't be so bad," Mouse laughs. "Except for the diapers. I'd love to give it a try, if you'll have me."

"Very well, then. Welcome to the ranks of the Jedi, even though you two aren't going to be wielding lightsabers."

Yeru steps forward. "I'm sorry, Knight Guardian Savessk, but I have no skills except for smiling and plotting."

He winks."Espionage is not only for the Sith and unlawful organizations such as the Exchange. As secluded as we are on Telos, we must be ever-vigilant for threats. The Jedi Order is recovering, but far more slowly than Master Atris wishes. Since the deaths of Masters Kavar, Vrook and Zez Kai-Ell, she is the only one left who has survived the reign of the Sith Triumvirate. If she perishes, I fear that all of our efforts to restore peace in this galaxy will be in vain. As a spy, you'd be marvelous. You know the art of the deal and the double-cross, not to mention…less-savory pursuits. Put them to good use, for the sake of the light instead of the darkness all around us. Are you willing?" Meekly, the Twi'lek nods.

 _All's well that ends well, so far. Ungghh - why is my splitting headache coming back all of a sudden?_

"As for you, gambler, you owe 100,000 credits to Exchange bosses. Have you heard of a second?"

"There are sixty of them in a minute, 3,600 in an hour, and 86,400 in a day." _Owww. Too much effort…_

Savessk gives an amused snort. "Indeed, but are you familiar with seconds to a warrior or duelist?"

"They finish the fight if their master can't." My eyes are starting to water again.

"Uh-oh," says Mouse. "You're having an allergic reaction to the sedative Ribok gave you. I'm sorry, but this kind's fatal."

"Then we have no time to lose." The Trandoshan rushes to me. "Take my hands." I do and kneel. "Relax." He pulls me close. "Try to empty your mind of frightened thoughts and panic. Breathe deeply." As I inhale and exhale, the fog begins to clear from my senses, and my skull feels less likely to split in half. The only thing I can see right in front of me is Savessk's face, and his orange eyes are full of concern.

I don't faint. I don't vomit or soil myself. I'm enveloped in a warm cocoon of healing, or so it seems. When the gentle heat fades, all of my painful symptoms are gone. "That was close," the Jedi tells me, hissing on the S's. "Don't try to stand yet. Remain kneeling. Vyshe Tanaria, do you pledge yourself to me as my _qa'triv?"_ This word is pronounced "ka-TREEVE," the latter syllable rhyming with "sleeve". "My second?"

 _What?_ "I – I'm not worthy. Not only am I a criminal, but you're a Jedi. I can't even use the Force."

"Never mind that. We Knights cannot take on Padawans of our own, but we are allowed _qa'trivi._ 'Liaisons' and 'servants' are also good translations of this term. It doesn't matter if they're Force-sensitive or not. All that is necessary is ability and willingness to work. I ask you again: Vyshe, will you pledge yourself to me?"

"Say no," says Orith. "A debt to one of his kind is far worse than to some stupid thug you can easily kill."

His words fall on deaf ears. "You saved my life twice," I tell Savessk, "so I accept. I'll become your _qa'triv."_

"Excellent." He kneels down and helps me to rise. "Come with me to the main hold, along with the rest of you. We'll be touching down upon the polar plateau soon, and we need to be harnessed in for a landing." We follow the Trandoshan and strap ourselves into our seats. In a cargo vessel like this one, they're pretty small. Here's hoping Savessk is as good at piloting at he is at pulling people back from the brink of death!

"Here we go." Mouse's face turns pale. "I'm a landlubber if you ever saw one. If I get motion sickness – "

"Then your puke is going to splatter all over…over…" Orith's head droops, and he starts to snore.

I'm confused until I hear Savessk chuckle to himself. Maurtha sticks out her tongue at Orith. "Nighty-night."

"Could you do that to me, too, if you DID do that?" The Jedi nods, and Mouse is soon snoring as well.

Only Maurtha, Savessk, Yeru and I are awake for the descent onto one of the massive Telosian ice caps. The Czerka cargo vessel sails down through a hazardous haze that I imagine is not made of snow, but of beach sand. It scours the entire landscape a blinding white, and I have to squint through the windshield. We can see nothing above or below us, but that's not the worst part. The worst part is that everything that would give life to a world – grass, streams, rivers, and even mountains – has been erased. All is pure and empty. I shiver despite being inside the warm ship. Why does this scene make my blood run so cold?

"Ready?" asks the Jedi. The five of us square our shoulders against the taxiing of our freighter into port.

Mouse and Orith are jolted awake. "What? What? Where are we?" cries the old bookie.

"Don't worry. We're here at Master Atris' academy upon the polar region of Telos. Time to disembark." With great care, we unharness ourselves from our seats and exit the ship in single file. Savessk takes the lead.

My muscles are groaning. _That was the roughest ride I've ever had on a vehicle that's supposed to traverse the stars with the greatest of ease. Of course, in Czerka's case, it's only supposed to traverse the distance between Citadel Station and the nearest corporate outpost. Still, you'd think they could do better than this._

"It's not very _scenic_ out here," Yeru Q'leth comments after trying to find the right euphemism. "It's so – "

" _Kriffing COLD!"_ That's Orith Vex, master of the obvious, wrapping his hefty arms around his torso.

"I never knew you were such a wuss," says Maurtha. "That's a terrible trait in a future guardsman."

"Shut up, you old bat."

"Enough." Savessk's tone is enough to make us all close our mouths. "There's the entrance. Follow me."

Thus, we five unfortunate souls bound for slavery to evil prepare to become bondservants to good instead.


End file.
